B    2    7MT    '4TT 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE 
TRENCHES 


BY 


GUY  MANNERS 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
1918 


Fred   M.   DeWitt 
bookseluer 

620     FOURTEENTH     ST. 

OAKLAND  CAL. 


coptright 

By 

GtJT  Manners 

1918 


Sunset  PrBLXSHiNalHousB 
San  Fbancisco 


Cantonments 


THE  GUNS 

What  will  it  take  to  beat  the  Huns? 
The  world's  best  manhood  and  guns!  guns!  guns! 
Mammoth  guns  of  an  hundred  tons 
That  shatter  the  world  with  their  roar; 
Great  long  tubes  of  hammered  steel 
That  bellow  a  challenge  without  thought  of  appeal. 
Bethlehem  guns!  Creosote  guns!  British  naval  guns! 
Guns  that  batter  the  hinges  from  Hell 
As  they  smash  down  Berlin's  door. 
What  else  will  it  take  to  beat  the  Huns? 
The  women  behind  the  men  of  the  guns — 
Women  who  do  and  women  who  dare, 
Women  whose  souls  are  over  there, 
Women  who  look  in  the  eyes  of  their  men, 
Who  send  them  forward  with  their  "At  them  again!" 
Women  who  stand  by  their  men,  hip  to  hip, 
With  vengeance  in  soul,  a  cheer  on  their  lip; 
American  women  in  red,  white  and  blue. 
Working,  praying,  fighting,  seeing  the  awful  game  through; 
Women  of  Belgium,  Britain  and  France, 
Hurling  defiance,  as  the  Prussians  advance; 
Italian  women,  a  new  hope  in  their  soul, 
Listening,  listening,  to  the  eternal  roll 
Of  the  Allied  guns — smashing  the  Huns. 
God  bless  the  thunderous,  sonorous 
sound  of  our  guns,  guns,  guns. 


[51 


822644 


Cantonments 

WHEN  WE'VE  WHIPPED  THE  KULTURED  BEAST 

Sure  we've  got  no  Danny  Deever  here  to  hang, 

And  we've  got  no  one  to  take  Mulvaney's  place, 

We've  got  no  Rudyard  KipHng 

With  army  argot  rippHng, 

To  glorify  our  rookies  and  bring  them  face  to  face 

With  the  screaming  shells  that  burst  up  in  the  air. 

With  the  shriek  of  "shrap"  and  whine  of  leaden  hail, 

And  we've  got  no  Gunga  Din — 

'Tis  a  bloomin'  murtherin'  sin — 

But  we'll  order  them,  and  get  them  without  fail. 

And  they'll  come  to  us  in  suits  of  khaki  gray, 

And  we'll  rhyme  about  the  things  yet  to  be  done; 

For  when  they  up  and  do  the  thing, 

There'll  be  some  one  here  to  sing 

About  the  Yankee  Boys  who  helped  to  win  Verdun. 

We  are  cruel,  young  and  tender  at  the  game, 

For  we've  never  had  an  army  in  the  East, 

But  there's  time  enough  to  win  a  poet's  fame 

When  we've  whipped  the  bhtherin'  Kultured  Prussian  beast. 

So  we  must  not  give  the  game  up  in  despair, 

And  bawl  for  bleedin'  ballads  to  be  read; 

For  the  things  we're  going  to  do 

Are  up  to  me  and  you, 

And  we'll  glorify  our  heroes — both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

So  here's  your  loaded  guns  and  your  khaki  cartridge  belts, 

And  here's  your  fleet  of  gaunt  gray  fighting  battleships; 

We've  an  army  now  in  France — 

Soon  't  will  get  the  word,  "Advance!'* 

And  the  things  we're  going  to  do  are  on  the  whole  World's  lips. 

So  take  your  place  in  line — 

By  the  gods,  but  you  look  fine! 

You're  the  World's  last  hope — the  one  safe  bet. 

Go  and  make  a  hero's  name 

In  the  awful,  bloody  game. 

And  we'll  glorify  you  always  in  a  way  you  won't  forget. 

[6] 


Cantonments 

THE  HUN  THAT  IS  UNDER 

You  don't  have  to  get  out  and  get  under 

When  you're  up  in  a  flying  machine, 

Up  in  the  clouds  in  God's  thunder, 

Up  where  the  hghtnings  gleam. 

It's  a  frightful  game  to  wage  war  in  the  sky, 

To  redden  with  blood  the  clouds  there  on  high, 

But  it's  a  glorious  place  to  fight  or  die, 

Away  from  the  world's  unutterable  cry. 

It  takes  a  man  to  play  that  game, 

Up  where  the  chances  are  a  hundred  to  one; 

It's  a  wonderful  place  to  carve  out  a  name. 

Whipping  the  Hun  in  the  glare  of  the  sun! 

You  don't  have  to  worry,  you  don't  have  to  wonder. 

For  you're  knocking  hell  out  of  the  Hun  that  is  under. 


[7 


Cantonments 

THEY  ARE  READY 

Not  a  bugle  call,  not  a  harsh  drum  beat, 

Only  the  sound  of  marching  feet; 

A  million  men  here,  a  million  men  there, 

Oh,  for  a  million  of  them  in  the  air! 

Miles  and  miles  of  men,  stern  of  face. 

Silently  shifting  themselves  into  place. 

Not  a  voice  in  protest  from  the  ranks  is  heard — 

They've  been  put  to  the  test,  they're  awaiting  the  word. 

Attention! 

Close  up! 

Close  up! 

Salute  the  God  above! 

Now  steady! 

Think  for  a  moment  of  those  you  love,  then  fight  like  Hell! 

For  you're  ready. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  side  by  side, 

Surging  for  miles,  a  human  tide, 

Millions  of  men — calm,  cold  and  stern, 

Caring  not  if  they  never  return, 

Heads  erect,  eyes  straight  ahead. 

Quietly,  men,  firm  and  steady! 

Thousands  of  them  will  be  shot  down  dead.     But — thank  the 

good  God! — 
They  are  ready. 


[8] 


Cantonments 

THE  FLANDERS  FRONT 

Fling  out  the  folds  of  the  Red,  White  and  Blue 

Across  the  sky  on  the  Flanders  Front; 

The  soil  is  wet  with  a  deep,  red  hue, 

Kiddies'  tears  mix  with  the  blood-stained  dew, 

A  voice  from  France  calls  to  me  and  to  you — 

"Come  across!    Come  across  to  the  Flanders  Front!" 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  wave  Over  There 

Across  the  sky  on  the  Flanders  Front; 

The  demons  of  death  hover  high  in  the  air, 

The  children  scream  and  moan  in  despair; 

On  the  lips  of  the  women  of  France  is  this  prayer — 

"Come  across!    Come  across  to  the  Flanders  Front." 

We  are  rushing  our  ships  'cross  the  treacherous  sea, 

Across  the  blue  deep  to  the  Flanders  Front; 

We  will  give  our  lives — both  you  and  me. 

We  will  fight  until  the  dawn  of  eternity, 

With  our  blood  we'll  demand  that  the  whole  world  be  free — 

We  are  going  across,  going  across  to  the  Flanders  Front. 

We  will  fight  through  the  thick  of  shot  and  shell 
Where  blood  flows  like  rivers  on  Flanders  Front, 
We  will  drive  the  Hun  to  the  front  door  of  Hell, 
We  shall  never  cease,  until  Democracy's  bell 
Has  sounded  Autocracy's  funeral  knell. 
The  American  fighting  man  is  across  on  the  blood-red 
Flanders  Front! 


[91 


Cantonments 

THE  BATTLESHIPS 

Our  great  gray  ships  put  out  to  sea, 

When  the  winds  blow  a  gale  from  the  south; 

Great,  phantom  strings  of  ghostly  things 

That  pound  their  way — on  to  Cattegat  Bay. 

And  we  wait  for  an  answer  from  across  the  sea, — 

An  answer  which  comes  from  the  cannon's  mouth. 

Oh,  the  stoker  sings,  as  the  warning  bell  rings : 

"We  will  crowd  on  steam — we  will  rush  along 
"And  go  down  to  our  death  with  a  sailor's  song, 
"For  we  are  the  heroes  in  the  guts  of  the  ships, 
"With  sweat  on  our  face — a  thirst  on  our  lips, — 
"What  care  we,  how  the  winds  do  blow, 
"For  we  are  the  masters  of  fate,  here  below!" 

The  gun  crews  stand  by  their  monsters  of  steel, 
As  the  giant  gray  ship  quivers  and  shakes; 
They  watch  the  battered  foe  shiver  and  reel 
As  a  shot  from  their  ten-inch  gun  overtakes 
His  mad  race  to  steam  past  the  danger  zone. 
Then  the  man  on  the  bridge  at  the  telephone 
Hoarsely  whispers  to  the  chief  below: 


[10] 


Cantonments 

"Cut  her  down,  Matey!   just  a  point  or  two  slow! 
"Ease  her  up  a  bit!   bank  your  furnace  j&re! 
"Every  shot  was  a  hit!   there's  no  use  to  tire 
"Your  stokers'  gang  and  your  engines'  crew! 
"Ease  her  up,  old  man!   the  bloody  game's  through! 
"For  we've  answered  them  a  shot  for  a  shot, 
"We  have  handed  them  back  a  shell  for  a  shell, 
"We  have  made  on  the  ocean  a  blood  red  blot, 
"For  we've  sent  another  sea  pirate  to  Hell!" 

The  wind  blows  and  screams  across  Skagerack, 
The  green  foam  leaps  on  our  fighting  deck. 
What  care  we  if  we  never  come  back, 
For  we  never  question  and  we  never  reck; 
We  never  reck  of  the  terrible  odds 
But  rush  through  the  seething  billows  gray, 
Ready  to  give  our  lives  to  the  gods 
Who  send  us  forth  in  battle  array. 


11] 


Interlude 

CALIFORNIA 

A  deep  gash  of  bronze  stained  earth, 

A  distant  mountain  peak  grim  and  tall, 

A  smiUng  valley  full  of  laughing  mirth, 

A  depth  of  river,  a  gurghng  waterfall, 

A  handful  of  feathery  traveling  cloud, 

A  sweep  of  gray  and  turquoise  sky, 

A  rustling  bit  of  breeze  that  whispers  loud — 

A  perfect  day  which  soon  must  die. 

And  then  a  heaven  full  of  stars  that  shine, 

A  floating  moon  in  almost  liquid  blue, 

A  bit  of  earth,  a  bit  of  heaven,  sweet,  divine — • 

The  ghostly  presence  of  a  Love  once  true; 

These  are  the  conjurings  of  a  peaceful  day 

Spent  within  the  soHtude  of  your  velvet  hills, — 

Cahfornia,  my  heart's  dehght,  could  I  but  pray 

To  live  forever  where  your  beauty  thrills! 

The  sound  of  distant  war — the  ghastly  thought 

Of  hastening  legions  marching  on  to  death — 

Leaves  but  an  echo  of  the  battles  fought 

That  scarce  disturbs  you.    A  fleeting  breath 

Of  mountain  roses  lingers  in  the  air, 

A  kiss  of  morning  dew  reposes  on  thy  breast; 

California,  thou  soul's  content!  serenely  fair. 

You  are  the  one  earth's  spot  which  I  love  best. 


112] 


The  Trenches 

THE  AMERICAN  ARMY  YELL 

Rookie,  Rookie,  fall  in  line, 
Left  foot,  right  foot,  now  mark  time; 
Watchful  waiting  days  are  over, 
No  more  army  pigs  in  clover. 

Soon  you'll  be  somewhere  in  France, 
Waiting  for  the  word,  "Advance!" 
Looking  through  a  periscope, 
Rushing  trenches  on  a  lope. 

What  shall  be  your  Battle  Cry? 
"On  to  Berlin!    'There's  a  reason  why!'" 
Get  the  Kaiser!   get  his  son! 
Remember  Belgium  and  Verdun! 

Knock  out  Kultur!  Knock  it  stiflf! 
Smash  the  junkers  in  midriff. 
Root  them!  shoot  them! !  boot  them,  too!  I 
Then  they'll  cheer  the  Red,  White  and  Blue. 


[13] 


The  Trenches 

WE»RE  GOING  TO  GET  THE  KAISER 

A  Hun  with  a  gun  this  bloody  war  begun, 

He  was  looking  for  a  place  in  the  bloomin'  red  sun. 

Said  the  Kaiser  to  the  Crown  Prince,  "On  with  the  dance! 

Here's  your  army!    Now  go  smashing  through  Belgium  into 

France; 
Kill  the  women  and  the  children!    Burn  the  churches  to  the 

ground! 
Butcher  every  Englishman,  no  matter  where  he's  found! 
Sink  the  ships  of  the  neutrals,  for  I  own  the  sea — 
To  hell  with  America!   She  can't  Hck  'Gott  Und  Me.'  " 
We  met  the  bloody  Huns,  they  were  five  miUion  strong. 
Now  the  bloomin'  French  and  British  sing  this  song: 

We  beat  you  at  the  Marne, 

We  beat  you  at  the  Aisne, 

We  gave  you  Hell  at  Neuve  Chappelle, 

And  here  we  are  again. 

We  will  beat  you  in  the  air, 
We  will  beat  you  in  the  trench, 
But  we'll  play  the  game  fair. 
We,  the  British!  Yank!  and  French! 

So  come  out  you  bloomin'  quitters,  come  out  and  fight; 
Quit  your  hidin'  in  the  trenches,  come  and  play  the  game  right; 
For  you  know  you're  up  against  it, — you  baby  killin'  Hun, — 
And  we're  going  to  get  the  Kaiser  and  his  Little  Son  of  a  Gun. 


[14] 


The  Trenches 

LETS  WIN  TODAY 

Oh,  the  bally  things  that  we  haven't  done, 

And  the  blooming  things  that  we're  going  to  do 

While  the  warships  float  'neath  a  copper  sun! — 

Is  that  the  way  to  see  it  through? 

Oh,  the  trenches  dug  and  the  hills  that  are  stormed, 

By  the  gallant  men  on  the  battle  ground. 

And  the  blazing  guns  on  the  terrains  formed 

Shouting  their  blooming  bellowing  sound. 

They're  over  the  top  to  their  hips  in  blood 

With  their  Lewis  gun  and  their  bayonet, 

A  ghastly  bunch  in  a  sea  of  mud. 

Making  a  fight  that  the  world  won't  forget. 

Senators  rant  and  commoners  scold, 

Strategists  plan,  and  the  war  boards  meet, 

And  the  cry  goes  out  for  steel  and  gold. 

While  they  plan  and  scheme  for  Prussian  defeat. 

Oh,  we  need  a  leader,  with  a  soul  of  iron. 

With  a  brain  as  sharp  as  a  herring  bone, 

With  his  mind  made  up  to  cross  the  Rhine 

Even  though  he  go  over  alone! 

We  can  make  the  fight  as  long  as  we  choose. 

We  can  shower  the  world  with  a  bloody  spray. 

But  the  time  must  come  when  we  win  or  lose — 

Let's  Win!    Not  tomorrow,  let's  Win  Today! 


[15] 


The  Trenches 

"THE  ARTILLERY  MAN" 

He  stood  by  the  red  hot  breech  of  the  gun 

And  jammed  in  a  three-inch  shell, 

With  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  to  the  sun, 

And  his  soul  at  the  threshold  of  Hell. 

He  had  played  the  game  all  his  hard  life  long 

Where  the  smear  of  red  blood  stained  the  ground. 

The  whine  of  shrapnel  to  him  was  a  song 

And  the  zip  of  a  bullet  a  syncopate  sound. 

The  hair  on  his  breast  was  like  a  tangled  mat 

Where  the  blood  from  his  jaw  was  smeared, 

It  mixed  with  the  sweat  'neath  the  brim  of  his  hat 

O'er  his  eyes  that  were  reddened  and  seared; 

He  fought  like  Hell  in  this  narrow  defile. 

With  his  face  to  the  foe  in  disdain, 

O'er  his  slitted  slashed  lips  was  a  demon's  smile, 

Not  a  thought  for  the  agonized  pain; — 

Off  to  the  right  in  the  fire  and  smoke 

A  long  creeping  line  crouched  and  lay — 

He  turned  the  crank  of  his  gun,  it  spoke 

Of  a  dozen  Hells  loosed,  a  quick  judgment  day! 

A  thirst  on  his  lips,  a  void  in  his  gut, 

A  gash  in  his  breast  where  a  mauser  crashed  through; 

He  stood  like  a  statue  with  lips  tight  shut — 

He  was  straining  his  eyes  for  the  God  in  the  blue. 

He  laughed  as  he  saw  the  Christ  on  the  Throne, 

He  railed  in  derision,  he  cursed  in  hate, 

'Cross  the  gray  battlefield  the  sunlight  shone — 

A  straight  narrow  road  to  Hell's  open  gate. 

They  would  get  him  soon,  they  would  tear  out  his  heart. 

They  would  wrench  from  his  body  his  battered  soul. 

He  had  done  his  best,  he  had  played  his  part. 

He  was  ready  to  answer  the  long  last  roll. 


[16] 


The  Trenches 

He  thought  of  his  kids,  he  thought  of  his  wife, 
He  thought  of  his  mother,  he  thought  of  her  prayer, 
He  thought  of  the  rotten  things  of  his  hfe — 
He  knew  that  he'd  never  meet  her  up  there. 
Why  in  the  Hell  had  they  played  this  game,    - 
What  was  the  damn  thing  all  about? 
Oh!  'twas  his  country  and  her  fair  name — 
The  long  drum  roll  and  the  gun's  brazen  shout. 
He  crouched  on  his  knees,  he  jammed  in  the  shell. 
He  closed  up  the  breech,  he  twisted  the  crank, 
He  flung  up  his  arms, — he  had  been  ushered  to  Hell,- 
'Cross  the  wheels  of  his  cannon  his  limp  form  sank. 

Did  I  say  that  this  man's  soul  went  below, 
To  writhe  in  agony,  hatred  and  pain? 
And  of  course  you  ask  how  in  Hell  I  know. 
And  you  laugh  at  my  thought  of  war  in  disdain. 
But  I've  seen  the  Devil  with  gun  and  sword 
Crouch  at  the  side  of  Jesus  the  Son, 
With  a  leer  on  his  face  and  a  curse  for  a  word, 
Without  thought  in  his  soul  for  a  deed  well  done. 
And  the  moon  shone  down  on  that  battlefield 
And  bathed  thousands  of  dead  in  her  briUiant  light. 
Their  staring  eyes  turned  to  the  azure  blue  shield; 
And  the  ghosts  crept  among  them  that  awful  night. 


17] 


The  Trenches 


FOR  AN  INCH  OR  TWO  OF  LAND 

Amidst  the  debris  of  the  dead,  that  lay  like  one  black  blot, 
A  bit  of  torn  up  earth,  on  which  was  sprawled  a  thousand 

crumpled  forms, — 
A  year  of  Hell  to  hold  and  keep  this  awful  carnage  spot : — 
A  piled  up  mass  of  tangled  dead  reheved  from  war's  alarms. 
A  million  shells  exploded — a  screaming  battle  song  of  hate- 
Five  times  ten  thousand  lives  tossed  high  on  funeral  pyres; 
The  rataplan  of  angry  drums,  the  silence  of  grim  Fate, 
The  surging  rush  of  human  souls  aflame  in  burning  fires. 
At  last,  the  breach  is  made,  and  like  a  leaping  wave 
The  tide  of  maddened  legions  rush  on  to  vantage  spot 
Across  that  bit  of  torn  up  earth — a  yawning  dismal  grave,— 
Amidst  the  debris  of  the  dead,  that  lay  like  one  black  blot. 


[18] 


The  Trenches 

THE  NEW  HERO 

The  wires  were  hot  with  the  bloomin'  news 

That  came  from  the  bloody  front, 

The  click  of  Morse  told  its  ghastly  tale, 

The  smear  of  it  all  in  grim  detail. 

You  had  what  you  got,  there  was  nothing  to  choose, 

And  you  ticked  it  out  with  a  beastly  grunt. 

What  in  Hell  does  a  brass  pounder  know 

'Bout  the  bloomin'  art  of  war? 

With  the  sweat  a-roUin'  down  his  chin, 

All  wet  outside  and  dry  within, 

While  a  hell  of  a  tale  makes  your  damn  soul  grow 

A  hundred  years  old  'neath  the  fresh  made  scar. 

And  we  clicked  off  the  news  just  back  of  the  lines. 
While  our  hearts  stabbed  against  our  ribs. 
Our  blood  red  eyes  saw  the  black  of  the  thing, 
When  suddenly  ticked  out  the  name  of  Byng. 
Great  Gawd,  he  had  done  it — the  impossible  thing — 
A  new  'ero  was  made,  and  his  name  was  Byng. 


[19] 


The  Trenches 

HINDY  DEAD! 

Hindy  dead!   Gawd  man!   'E  cawnt  be  dead! 

Wot's  the  use  o'  fightin'  in  such  a  blawsted  gyme, 

Shut  yer  bloomink  mouth  or  I'll  bash  in  your  blymed  old  'ead, 

S'elp  me  Gawd,  I  will!   Sure  the  Crown  Prince,  'ell  be  dead  next 

time. 
Hindy  dead! — that  bleedin'  blood  red  butcher  ^ 

With  his  scowling  mug  and  pair  o'  gimlet  heyes, — 
I  wouldn't  be  in  'Ell  with  him,  the  low  bred  Prussian  moocher; 
Blyme  it,  man,  yer  misinformed!   such  beasts  they  never  dies. 
Hindy  dead! — who'll  pay  for  all  this  blood  red  killin'? 
And  all  the  time  I've  prayed  that  I  might  be  the  man 
To  shove  a  bay'nit  in  his  guts,  and  watch  his  blood  a-spillin' ; 
And  now  you  come,  and  say,  '"E's  dead!" — Oh,  you  be  dam'! 
I've  bin  a  fightin'  man  for  thirty  years,  but  blyme  me,  mate, 
I've  never  known  this  bloomink  thirst  for  one  man's  blood  before; 
I'd  march  right  up  to  'Ell's  wide  open  gate 
To  get  a  crack  at  Hindy;  this  news  it  makes  me  horful  sore. 
W'y!  I  was  on  with  French  and  saw  the  soldiers  crucified. 
And  saw  the  murderin'  beastly  'Uns  gouge  out  kiddies'  heyes. 
I  told  the  bloomink  conscripts  and  they  thought  that  I  had  lied; 
I  put  the  blyme  on  Hindy!  Now  the  bhtherin'  blighter  dies! 
S'elp  me  Gawd!   this  war's  no  use  if  such  as  'e  goes  West, 
And  there'll  be  no  bloody  reason  left  for  me  to  longer  fight, — 
Move  over  in  your  own  trench!   I'm  tired,  and  want  to  rest, — 
Let's  pray  that  Hindy  isn't  dead — for  my  sake,  mate!  Good  night. 


120] 


The  Trenches 

WITH  HAIG 

Up  to  the  mouth  of  the  six  inch  gun  with  Haig, 

Through  the  slimy  mud  stained  with  blood 

We  go  to  our  grave  still  gloriously  brave; 

No  quarter  we  give,  no  quarter  we  ask, 

Up  to  our  hips  in  the  bloody  task. 

God!  what  a  privilege  'tis  to  slaughter  the  Hun  with  Haig! 

No  sleep,  no  rest,  no  time  to  eat,  plajdng  the  game  with  Haig; 

The  guns  are  hot  with  our  answering  shot, 

The  Hun  we  dare  in  the  sunlight's  glare, 

We  have  just  one  thought,  just  one  prayer. 

We  say  it  in  hope  and  not  in  despair — 

And  that  is  to  keep  on  playing  the  game  with  Haig. 

They  will  hang  on  our  breast  a  bit  of  bronze  for  Haig; 

With  our  blood  'twill  be  bought,  and  they'll  know  we  fought. 

Fought  with  the  sweat  in  our  bloomin'  eyes 

With  no  attempt  our  hate  to  disguise. 

Fighting  Uke  Hell  for  that  wonderful  prize, — 

Fighting  for  World  Democracy — under  the  banner  of  Haig. 


[21 


The  Trenches 

TILL  THE  BLOOMIN'  BLIGHTER'S  DEAD 

Don't  tell  me  any  more  'bout  that  'eathen  Gunga  Din, 

Sure  the  Tommies  in  those  days  didn't  know  the  art  o'  war; 

For  we've  faced  an  awful  slaughter, 

Without  food  or  drop  o'  water, 

And  our  scurvy  old  white  bodies  show  an  ugly  deep  red  scar. 

Them  was  gentlemen— those  Paythins  who  the  Tommies  used  to 

fight. 
Gawd  blawst  these  'ungry  'Uns!  their  souls  is  black  as  night. 
Listen,  matey!  did  you  'ear  the  voice  o'  'Aig? 
Gawd,  man!  did  you  ever  'ear  a  Field  Marshal  beg? 
Well  'es  a-beggin'  now!  God  bless  you,  'Aig,  Old  Top! 
'Ere  we  are,  at  your  command,  and  'ere  we  stop. 
Sure  we're  waitin'  for  you  to  give  the  bloomin'  word,  "Advance!" 
And  we'll  drive  the  bloody  'Uns  clear  across  the  soil  o'  France! 
So,  'ere's  to  you,  Tommie  Atkins;  you've  proved  that  you're  no 

blighter — 
The  world  'as  got  to  go  some  to  produce  a  better  fighter! 
Sight  your  gun  a  little  'igher,  matey;  Gawd,  hut  fightin^  is  a  sin! 
Did  you  'ear  old  Marshal  'Aig  shout,  "Stand  and  Fight!" 
Well,  'e  means  for  us  to  scrap  as  we've  never  scrapped  before, 
'N  that's  just  exactly  what  we  all  mean  to  do. 
And  the  bloody  game  is  left  entirely  up  to  me  and  you. 
Sure  we're  goin'  to  smash  old  Hindy  while  on  British  blood  'e's 

drunk. 
Though  our  cannon  wheels  up  to  their  'ubs  in  Flanders  mud  are 

sunk, 
For  we've  got  to  keep  the  murderin'  '  Uns  from  the  Channel  ports* 

shore. 
Like  the  bloomin*  Rock  o'  Gib'  we  will  'ave  to  stand  our  ground. 
We'll  obey  the  mighty  voice  o'  'Aig,  for  we  loves  its  grizzly 

sound. 
Up  and  at  them,  Tommie  Atkins!  Pump  their  damn  'ides  full  o' 

lead! 
For  an  'Un  he  cawnt  be  trusted  'till  the  Bloomin'  Blighter's 

dead. 


[22] 


The  Trenches 

TELL  US,  O  WONDERFUL  WOMAN! 

Tell  us,  0  Wonderful  Woman!  you  of  the  patient  soul, — 
How  do  things  go  back  of  us,  far  back,  behind  the  lines? 
Can  you  see  the  smoke  of  our  guns,  do  you  hear  their  echoes 

roll, 
Do  you  silently  stand  at  Vesper  time  and  pray,  with  the  stroke 

of  the  chimes? 
Do  you  keep  "The  Home  Fires  Burning,"  is  there  a  candle  light 

in  the  room, 
Do  you  pray  for  our  safe  returning  after  the  dreadful  gloom? 
Is  the  love  Hght  still  in  our  sweetheart's  eyes,  the  smile  upon 

her  lips? 
For  such  we  would  fight  and  willingly  die,  in  blood  up  to  our  hips. 

Tell  us,  0  Wonderful  Woman,  as  you  look  at  the  blood  red  sky, 
Are  you  giving  the  best  that  is  in  your  soul,  like  us,  are  you 

willing  to  die? 
Do  our  heart  beats  answer  each  other,  does  the  blood  that 

flows  in  our  veins. 
Make  you  catch  the  faint  whisper,  Mother,  as  we  writhe  in 

the  battle  pains? 
For  we  are  fighting  for  you,  0  Woman,  through  the  red  of 

the  awful  day, 
We  will  fight  to  the  last  for  Victory  and  naught  will  our  souls 

dismay! 
For  we  hear  the  sound  of  your  chanting  voice  as  you  sing  the 

glorious  hymn, 
America!  America!   And  the  tears  make  our  eyes  grow  dim. 


23] 


The  Trenches 

PAL  O'  MY  HEART 

Pal  O'  My  Heart,  Goodbye!  Goodbye! 

Pal  0'  My  Heart,  shall  we  never  more  meet? 

I  left  you,  0  Pal  O'  My  Heart  with  a  sigh — 

May  the  God  who  looks  o'er  us  keep  our  memories  sweet. 

Pal  0'  My  Heart,  your  gray  haunting  eyes 

Keep  searching  the  innermost  thought  of  my  brain; 

Pal  0'  My  Heart,  such  love  never  dies 

As  the  love  that  you  gave  me,  but  my  soul  suffers  pain. 

Pal  0'  My  Heart,  where  the  lily  and  rose, 

White,  and  blood  Red,  are  mingled  with  Blue, 

Search  for  my  body  where  the  River  Aisne  flows, 

For  I've  given  my  life  for  Freedom  and  You. 

Pal  O'  My  Heart,  Goodbye!    Goodbye! 

May  the  love  I  bequeath  you,  0  Pal!  never  die. 


24] 


The  Trenches 

UNDER  THE  LILIES  AND  ROSE 

Under  the  Lilies  of  France,  under  the  English  Rose, 

Beneath  their  blossoming  petals,  a  million  heroes  repose; 

They  sleep  the  days  and  nights  away, 

Awaiting  the  sound  of  Judgment  Day, 

Shrouded  in  garments  of  soft-toned  gray, 

Waiting  the  day,  oh!  waiting  the  day; 

Waiting  the  day  when  the  good  God  above. 

Lights  up  the  heavens  with  a  tender  smile, 

When  the  angels  sing  a  hymn  of  love, 

When  the  world  is  free  from  sin  and  guile. 

Under  the  Lilies  of  France,  under  the  English  Rose, 

Beneath  their  blossoming  petals  a  million  heroes  repose. 


25] 


Interlude 

THE  ARIZONA  DESERT 

The  solitude  of  the  desert  creeps  into  the  blood  of  my  veins 

As  I  look  across  the  miles  and  miles  of  arid  sand-covered  plains. 

I  behold  the  majestic  mountains  as  they  pierce  the  blue  of  the 
sky, 

And  I  no  longer  wonder  when  I  hear  the  desert's  cry. 

For  the  cry  of  the  desert  is  in  the  voice  of  God  calling  to  tired- 
out  men — 

Come  unto  me  in  solitude;  come  and  find  hope  again. 

Then  I  watch  the  shadows  creeping  across  the  desert's  breast, 
They're  the  shadow  of  Christ  as  He  walks  the  earth  pleading 

and  praying  for  rest ; 
Then  the  sins  that  are  within  us  are  washed  away,  one  by  one, 
In  the  glorious,  streaming,  golden  light  of  the  desert's  God- 
given  sun. 
And  the  voice  of  hate  is  silenced  and  love  is  born  in  our  brain, 
And  it  augurs  not  well  for  the  beast  of  a  man  found  inflicting 
a  useless  pain. 

There's  a  mystic  shrine  in  the  desert,  at  the  base  of  a  mountain 

tall. 
You  can  hear  the  spirits  of  those  who  are  dead  faintly  whisper 

and  call: 
They  call  to  those  of  their  loved  ones:  "Come  out  on  the  desert 

and  pray 
Come  out  and  stand  in  the  Ught  of  the  sun  and  your  sins  will 

be  washed  away." 
And  the  desert  of  Arizona  calls  unto  those  who  are  men, 
Come  unto  me  in  solitude,  come  and  find  hope  again. 


[26] 


Alll 


tes 


BRITISH  EMPIRE 

England  does  not  make  the  Empire, 
Nor  does  Scotland,  Ireland,  Wales; 
Where  the  flags  fly,  there's  the  Empire, 
And  they  fly,  tho'  foe  assails. 

Where  the  guns  roar,  there's  the  Empire; 
Where  the  gaunt,  gray  dreadnoughts  lie, 
Circling  mass  of  steel  and  cannon — 
The  Empire's  where  the  war-flags  fly. 

Where  the  sheep  graze  in  Australia, 
Where  the  farms  dot  Canadian  soil, 
Where  the  tribesmen  of  the  desert 
Mingle  sweat  with  those  who  toil; 

Where  the  waters  flow  through  Egypt — 
Waters  from  the  dark  blue  Nile — 
There's  the  Empire!  stretching  eastward, 
Ever  free  from  Prussian  guile. 

India!   Blazing  like  a  sapphire, 
True  to  Britain's  King  and  Queen, 
Africa,  loosed  from  grasp  of  conquest. 
Rope  of  pearls  in  Carribean. 

There's  your  Empire,  sons  of  Britain, 
Sons  of  free  men,  not  of  slaves; 
The  word  across  the  sky's  been  written. 
The  Empire  stands  where  the  war-flag  waves. 

Allied  nations  to  the  rescue. 
Answering  shot  with  gun  for  gun; 
Roar  out  cannon — 'mong  the  lilies' 
Red  drenched  petals — blood  of  Hun. 


[27] 


Allies 

Belgium  called  in  time  of  need — 
Your  souls  you  found,  O  British  sons! 
Dared  by  Prussia's  lustful  greed 
You  answered  her  with  thundering  guns. 

Men  from  across  the  seven  seas, 
Stern  of  face  and  brave  of  soul, 
Beckoned  by  thy  flaming  finger 
Swiftly  answered  war  drums'  roll. 

Steel  of  bayonet,  steel  of  sword. 
Flashing  out  'neath  banners  bold. 
Hammered  steel-strong  bonds  of  Empire 
Fused  in  blood  and  molten  gold. 

Fling  the  flags  out  east  and  westward. 
Fling  them  further,  north  and  south; 
Union  Jack — Colonial  war  flags, 
Follow  them  to  cannon's  mouth. 

Cease  you?   Never!   grim  and  stubborn 
British  bull-dogs  that  you  are, 
Make  the  Hun  salute  that  Empire 
Tho'  your  soul  show  blood-red  scar. 

British  Empire!   O  God,  we  greet  Thee, 
Prussian  arms  cannot  defeat  Thee, 
Justice  did  not  need  entreat  Thee — 
Stretch  out  arms  across  the  sea. 


[28] 


Allies 


PICARDY 

A  field  in  France,  where  roses  bloom, 

A  garden  spot,  where  tall  white  lilies  grow, 

A  sweep  of  sunkissed  earth;  an  enchanted  loom 

Where  angel  fingers  weave  the  day's  soft  afterglow. 

A  bit  of  crescent  moon  low  hung  in  amber  sky, 

A  frieze  of  soft  gray  cloud,  a  shimmering  silver  haze, 

A  trembhng  breeze,  Hke  sleeping  infants  sigh. 

Recall  to  me  the  memories  of  old  Picardy  days. 

A  black-robed  priest  with  shaven  head 

Stands  in  pensive  mood  by  ruined  altar  rail, 

And  murmurs  prayers  for  France's  hero  dead, 

Who  fought  to  keep  on  earth  the  Holy  Grail. 

The  sullen  echoes  of  the  foes'  retreating  guns. 

The  curling  smoke  from  embers  of  a  burning  home, 

The  tall  white  lilies,  red  with  blood  of  evil  Huns, 

Wave  to  the  crimson  roses,  but  the  Soul  of  France  doth  moan. 

The  Soul  of  France  cries  not  aloud  in  fear. 

Nor  for  a  vengeance  not  countenanced  by  God, 

She  points  her  finger  at  Belgium's  desecrated  bier 

And  shivers  at  the  sight  of  her  own  blood-deluged  sod. 

She  hurls  her  armies  on,  in  clean  sublime  disdain. 

And  carves  with  sword  her  right  to  longer  live; 

She  fights  that  Berlin's  Beast  may  die,  so  God  again  may  reign; 

She  struggles  on  e'en  though  her  last  warm  drop  of  blood 

she  give. 
And  youth  from  other  lands  give  aid  to  suffering  France 
And  offer  up  their  lives  on  shell-torn  battlefield; 
America,  in  love  and  justice,  grimly  doth  advance 
With  vow  of  world-wide  Freedom  inscribed  upon  her  shield. 
The  evil  visage  of  the  Hun  shows  naught  but  hate. 
As  backward,  inch  by  inch,  he  lays  the  soil  to  waste. 
The  answering  shot  from  Allied  gun  does  not  abate 
The  stinging  lash  of  punishment  the  Goth  has  yet  to  taste; 
For  there  will  be  another  field  in  France  where  roses  bloom, 
Another  garden  spot  wherein  tall  white  lilies  grow, 
And  God's  own  finger  will  thread  an  enchanted  loom. 
And  weave  a  peaceful  fabric,  white  as  driven  snow. 


[29] 


Allies 


MOTHER  McCHREE 

Where's  your  son,  0  Mother  McChree,  God  bless  you,  where's 

your  son? 
He's  gone  to  the  war,  where  he  ought  to  be; 
He's  a-fightin'  for  you,  and  a-fightin'  for  me. 
Where's  your  daughter,  Mother  McChree,  the  one  with  the 

golden  hair? 
She's  sailed  across  the  wild  Irish  Sea, 
She's  a-fightin'  for  you, — a-fightin'  for  me; 
She's  a-makin'  munitions  in  London  town. 
And  sings  when  the  raiders  drop  gas  bombs  down, — 
Shure  my  son  and  my  daughter,  Terence  0' Toole,  are  a  fightin' 

Irish  pair. 

Where's  the  ould  man.  Mother  McChree,  where's  the  ould 

divil  gone? 
He's  been  buried  these  three  years  in  a  shallow  trench; 
Shure  he  was  one  of  the  first  who  wint  over  with  French. 
God  bless  the  three  of  them,  Terence  O'Toole,  they  niver  did 

anythin'  wrong. 

Would  you  take  a  handful  o'  Proosian  gold.  Mother  McChree, 

from  me? 
For  the  days  they  are  bleak  and  the  nights  are  cold, 
And  the  Saints  won't  care,  for  you're  growin'  old; 
All  that  is  asked  of  you  is  to  throw  out  a  light  on  the  sea. 


[30] 


Allies 


Terence  O'Toole,  you're  a  dam'  ould  fool, — away  with  your 

Proosian  gold, — 
I  can't  walk  from  here  into  Dublin  town, — 
You're  a  traitor,  and  God  should  strike  you  down. 
You  should  be  burnin'  with  Casement  along  with  the  divil  in 

Hell. 
Were  the  likes  of  you  wiped  from  Irish  soil,  there  would  be  no 

scoundrels  to  tell 
Of  the  terrors  of  Clan  na  Gael,  of  the  crimes  of  the  Sein 

Fein  crew, 
Of  the  bloody  days  in  Sackville  street,  when  you  and  Con 

Shugrue 
Fought  with  Proosian  rifles  and  murdered  the  King's  men  brave. 
And  sold  your  souls  for  the  Kaiser's  gold,  to  make  Ireland 

Proosia's  slave. 
And  now  you  come  to  old  Mother  McChree, 
And  ask  her  to  throw  out  a  light  on  the  sea. 
In  order  to  guide  a  Hun  submarine 
To  redden  with  blood  the  emerald  green 
Of  Ireland's  soil, — to  murder,  rape,  burn. 
My  God!    Terence  O'Toole,  is  it  Ireland's  turn? 
Go  back  to  Dublin,  to  your  murderin'  gang. 
Go  back  to  those  willing  God's  Son  to  betray; 
Tell  them  Mother  McChree  "God  Save  the  King"  sang, 
While  you  sold  out  Ireland  for  Proosian  pay. 
Molly,  my  daughter,  in  London  town, 
Sings  when  the  raiders  drop  gas  bombs  down, 
Dennis,  my  son — across  the  wild  Irish  sea 
Is  coming  back  home, — on  his  breast  a  V.  C; 
Good  day,  Terence  O'Toole — you're  not  lookin'  so  well, 
May  you  be  shot  for  a  traitor,  and  your  soul  burn  in  Hell! 


[311 


Allies 


QUIT  YOUR  POLITICS— COME  OUT  AND  FIGHT 

There's  a  flash  of  sword,  a  shriek  of  shell,  a  sullen  deep  toned  roar, 
We've  got  fighting  men  in  Flanders,  but  we  need  some  millions 

more. 
We  are  crossing  swords  with  Prussia,  knee  to  knee  and  hand  to  hand, 
We  are  meeting  her  upon  the  sea  and  beating  her  on  land; 
Do  you  hear  the  blessed  music  of  the  guns. 
As  they  sing  a  funeral  dirge  for  the  Huns? 

There  are  men  from  the  Shannon,  from  the  Liffey,  from  the  Tyne, 
Hurling  death  from  cannon  into  Hindenberg's  line; 
India's  blood  and  Ireland's  blood  bathes  the  soil  of  France 
Mixed  in  with  Flanders  mud, — God  how  they  advance! 

There's  the  fighting  man  from  Oregon,  California,  Maine, 
Laughing  where  the  bayonets  flash,  where  death  doth  reign; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Englishman  and  Scot 
Charging  where  the  shells  fall,  where  the  guns  are  hot. 

Hold  the  voice  of  Parliament,  send  us  men  and  guns. 

Silence  the  words  of  Asquith,  for  we're  beating  down  the  Huns! 

For  four  long  years  we've  struggled  and  the  game  is  now  in 

sight,— 
For  God's  sake  quit  your  politics, — come  out  and  help  us  fight! 

We've  stood  the  gaff  with  George  and  Haig,  we  can  stand  it 

yet  awhile. 
But  we're  damned  if  we'll  fight  politics  with  a  silly  soldier's 

smile! 
We  are  holding  them  on  Flanders  front,  we  will  drive  them  to 

Berlin, 
'Tis  the  year  that  Kitchener  said  we  would, — if  we  lose  'twill 

be  a  sin! 
So  come  on,  ye  Lords  and  Premiers,  fall  in  line  behind  the  guns! 
'Tis  the  year  that  dear  old  Kitchener  said  we'd  whip  the 

bloody  Huns. 


[32] 


Allies 

TRAITORS  IN  RUSSIA 

They  caress  the  dice  box  of  stubborn  fate 

And  roll  out  the  cubes  in  disdain ; 

They  gamble  in  blood  and  affairs  of  state 

While  the  world  writhes  in  anguish  and  pain; 

They  hover  like  moths  'round  the  dying  flame 

Of  Liberty,  Freedom,  and  Life; 

They  grope  in  the  dark  of  eternal  shame 

And  barter  their  future  for  strife; 

No  national  pride  fills  their  souls  with  desire, 

Their  hand  fails  to  grasp  the  sword. 

They  lack  courage  to  build  the  beacon  fire 

Of  a  deed  that  is  greater  than  word; 

The  dice  roll  out  as  the  palsied  hand 

Toys  with  their  nation's  fate, 

The  world  looks  aghast  'cross  the  frozen  land, 

Wrecked  by  its  monsters  of  hate. 


[33] 


Allies  ^ 

NEVER  AGAIN! 

AMERICA'S  ANSWER  TO  "THE  DAY" 

It  is  our  turn  now  to  arise  and  stand, 

Holding  o'erhead  in  a  steady  hand 

A  glass,  and  its  contents  we  will  drain; 

We  will  not  give  utterance  to  a  sinister  boast 

Nor  challenge  the  world  with  an  evil  toast; 

Quietly,  hke  men,  we'll  repeat  these  words:    Never  Again! 

For  a  long,  long  time  we  dreaded  the  hour 

That  would  call  us  to  arms  to  prove  our  power. 

The  die  is  cast,  'twill  be  anguish  and  pain ; 

We  have  answered  the  threat  hurled  in  our  face — 

A  million  gray  forms  have  taken  their  place. 

Bravely,  like  men,  we  will  win  this  war.   Then?    Never  Again! 

We  have  too  much  soul  for  a  slogan  of  hate, 

God  forbid  that  dishoner  may  be  our  fate, 

We've  unsheathed  our  sword,  but  not  in  disdain; 

Battle  we  must.    God  grant  for  the  right, — 

Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  God's  Trinity  of  Might 

Safe  in  our  keeping —  Yes  we  will  win!    Then?    Never  Again! 

Secure  in  the  circle  of  light  from  God's  throne, 

No  wages  of  sin,  no  deeds  to  disown. 

On,  through  the  smoke,  'midst  the  leaden  rain. 

Reckoning  not  who  will  have  to  pay; 

Yours  was  the  challenge,  the  toast  of  the  day, — 

But  we'll  whip  you.    God  wills  it.    Then?    Never  Again! 

Years  of  sorrowful  torture,  with  no  recompense, 

Saddened  by  lack  of  reason  and  sense, 

A  world  of  black  horror  deadened  with  pain. 

No,  we  will  not  give  utterance  to  sinister  boast 

Nor  soil  our  lips  with  an  evil  toast; 

But  lest  you  forget — we  shall  crush  you.    Then?    Never  Again! 


[34] 


frussia 

HOSTS  OF  GHOSTS 

The  marching  tread  of  the  blood  red  dead, 

Keeping  step  to  the  ghost  drums  beat, 

The  echoing  sound,  on  the  shell  torn  ground, 

As  the  helmeted  hosts  of  Huns  retreat; 

Ghosts  of  hosts, 

Who  haunt  the  red  stained  fields; 

Hosts  of  ghosts, 

Who  flaunt  the  dread  flamed  shields; 

An  endless  echo  of  guns'  sullen  roar; 

Not  a  note  of  mercy  do  the  Huns  implore. 

Backward!    Backward!    'Tis  the  Hun's  retreat, 

Keeping  step  to  the  ghost-drums'  beat; 

A  bent,  gray  line  of  blood  red  dead. 

In  measured  time,  the  marching  tread 

Of  ten  million  feet  shuffling  o'er  the  ground; 

Not  a  word,  not  a  look,  not  a  gutteral  sound; 

The  Boast  of  Prussia  lies  trailed  in  the  dust. 

On  her  sword  is  a  smear  of  blood-stained  rust. 


[35] 


Prussia 

GOTT— ! 

Our  father,  who  art  in  BerUn, 
Wilhelm  the  Gross  thy  name, 
Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread, 
Which  thou  didst  steal  from  Louvain. 
Forgive  us  the  most  atrocious  sin 
Of  determining  to  get  thy  goat, 
For  we  are  going  to  enter  Berlin 
Though  you  sink  every  Allied  boat. 
Deliver  us  from  the  evil 
Of  casting  most  covetous  eyes 
Upon  the  land  of  Alsace-Lorraine, 
A  jewel  which  thou  didst  not  prize. 
For  thine  was  once  the  kingdom 
And  the  glory  among  all  men. 
But  thy  withered  arm 
Hath  done  all  its  harm 
Forever  and  ever.  Amen. 


[36] 


Prussia 

THE   DEFEATED    SERPENT   PRUSSIA— A   PROPHECY 

Black  and  slimy,  hugging  the  earth,  creeping  and  crawling  along, 
Leaving  a  trail  of  blood  and  filth,  a  record  of  terrible  wrong; 
A  thousand  miles  of  mottled  men  crouching  in  sodden  retreat — 
A  helmeted  snake,  beaten  and  bruised,  crushed  by  fearful  defeat. 

A  brazen  serpent,  with  poison  fang,  a  beady  red-circled  eye, 
A  drooling,  dripping,  cavernous  mouth,  a  sibilant,  hissing  cry; 
A  creaking  wheel  of  grumbling  gun,  a  broken  lance  and  sword, 
A  starving,  demented,  distorted  mass,  a  shuffling,  stumbling 
horde. 

On,  through  valleys  of  black,  burnt  trees,  its  sinuous  way  it 

wends. 
An  agonized  sound  of  victims'  wails — an  echo  that  never  ends; 
A  long  drawn  breath  of  utter  despair,  an  angry  sullen  moan, 
As  hobnailed  heels  crush  phantom  skulls,  eliciting  a  ghastly 

groan. 

Oh,  the  world  looks  on  in  fearful  hate,  as  the  serpent  crawls 

along. 
Muttering  its  curse  of  impotent  rage,  hissing  its  strafing  song! 
And  the  strident  roll  of  its  cracked  war  drums  sounds  a  slow 

retreat. 
And  the  snake  crawls  on,  in  the  filthy  mud  of  terrible,  bloody 

defeat. 

The  Kaiser  rides  by  the  side  of  his  son,  two  creatures  in  drab 

and  gray. 
Leading  the  serpent's  sinuous  march,  with  no  hope  for  a 

Future  Day. 
Millions  of  eyes  gaze  on  in  disgust,  not  a  word  of  pity  or  love, 
The  serpent  has  hissed  its  last  angry  cry  at  the  patient  God 

above. 


37] 


Prussia 

TONGUES 

Serpent  tongues,  whispering  scandal, 
Reeking,  slimy  tongues  of  hate. 
Tongues  more  cruel  than  the  vandal, 
Tongues  that  tell  the  truth  too  late; 
Tongues  that  kill  the  souls  in  women, 
Tongues  that  murder  in  the  dark, 
Tongues  that  lie  but  never  die, 
Tongues  that  kindle  mischief's  spark; 
Poisoned  fangs  that  ooze  a  toxin 
Brewed  in  caverns  of  a  brain. 
Spewing  falsehoods  like  a  river. 
Spelling  only  one  word — pain. 
Tongues  that  rob  you  of  a  friend, 
Tongues  that  drive  you  mad  with  grief, 
Tongues  that  make  you  wish  to  end 
The  one  big  hope  in  God — Belief. 
Lying  tongues  and  crying  tongues. 
Tongues  more  cruel  than  the  vandal, 
Torturing,  slimy,  filthy  tongues; 
Serpent  tongues  of  whispering  scandal. 


[38] 


Prussia 

THE  SWAN  SONG 

Germany  sings  her  swan  song 

Under  the  linden  tree, 

The  night  is  dark  and  the  day  is  long — 

'Tis  the  voice  of  Lorelei. 

There's  a  blood-red  moon,  there's  a  sullen  boom 

Of  a  gun  that  sings  requiem, 

There  never  shall  be  another  day, 

For  German  blood  can  no  longer  pay; 

Germany  sings  her  swan  song,  her  one  last  battle  hymn. 


[39] 


Interlvde 

THE  RAINBOW 

God  flung  out  a  handful  of  earth  and  sky, 

And  tossed  a  granite  mountain  in  its  midst, 

And  reared  a  giant  forest  towering  high. 

And  wove  a  lattice  work  of  rose  and  mignonette, 

And  stretched  an  arc  of  rainbow  from  hill  to  hill — 

A  bridge  for  angels  to  loiter  on  in  peace; 

A  cavern  peopled  with  fireflies,  a  creeping  rill — 

And  a  poet  came  who  drank  his  soul's  deep  fill 

And  wrote  a  crooning  melody  of  life's  one  sweet  song, 

Then  wandered  off  and  whispered  words  of  joyful  hope 

And  sent  life's  message.  Love!    swiftly  hurrying  along. 


[401 


r^eace 

THE  SOUL 

This  world  was  made  in  a  moment  of  peace, 

Planned  by  a  master  hand ; 

A  bit  of  heaven,  a  bit  of  sea, 

A  bit  of  smiling  land, 

A  ribbon  of  golden  sunlight, 

A  filtered  bit  of  moon's  ray, 

A  trembling  night  of  sheer  delight, 

A  glorious,  wonderful  day. 

And  a  people  after  God's  image 

Lingered  and  loitered  and  stole. 

And  invented  a  plan  to  eternally  damn 

The  thing  God  entrusted  to  their  care — 

The  supreme,  exalted,  spiritual  prayer 

The  essence  of  God  Almighty's  theme — the  Soul. 

A  million  pleas  go  to  heaven 

Uttered  in  hypocrites'  prayer, 

A  million  creeds  work  a  million  deeds 

At  which  God  doth  wonderingly  stare. 

A  weapon  is  hammered  from  molten  steel 

Which,  used  by  man,  makes  religion  reel; 

The  gun  and  sword  is  man's  spoken  word, 

The  voice  of  Christ  is  no  longer  heard; 

The  shrieking  shell,  the  cannons'  roll 

Have  settled  the  score  forevermore 

'Twixt  man  and  the  God  who  gave  us  the  thing 

Which  we've  throttled  and  strangled  in  unholy  lust 

'Til  the  angels  in  heaven  have  screamed  in  disgust. 

And  we've  thrown  at  God's  feet  the  supreme  thing — Our  Soul. 


[41] 


Peace 

But  we  will  battle  on  for  a  million  years 

Though  the  world  be  bathed  and  drenched  in  tears; 

We  will  hammer  away  by  night  and  day 

*Til  again  the  pendulum's  erratic  sway 

Shall  reach  the  dead  centre  of  godlike  themes 

And  arouse  ourselves  from  destructive  dreams; 

For  part  of  the  world  is  bound  to  be  right — 

God  grant  it  is  us  as  we  make  the  fight, 

For  blood  must  be  spilled  and  man  must  be  killed 

And  woman  must  shiver  in  dread, 

But  childhood  prayer  must  ascend  up  there 

Or  else  we  must  reckon  with  hopes  that  are  dead, 

And  the  thunderous  sound  of  cannons'  roll 

Must  be  the  one  hope  found  to  redeem  the  Soul. 


[42 


Peace 


NOT  UNTIL— NO  NOT  UNTIL! 

Whence  comes  the  cry  of  peace? 

From  Belgium,  who  bared  her  breast  and  said  "Come  On!"? 

No,  not  yet,  nor  for  a  dozen  gaunt,  grim,  starving  years, 

Not  from  Belgium,  mingling  blood  with  children's  tears. 

With  flesh  torn  into  ribbons,  where  Prussia's  cruel  whip 

Broke  the  body — but  brought  no  pleading  cry  from  lip 

For  peace;  Belgium  cries  not  yet  for  peace,  but  says  "Fight  On!" 

Whence  comes  the  cry  for  peace? 

From  France,  who  drew  her  sword  and  looked  into  the  eye  of 

God, 
And  gave  her  consecrated  word  to  perish  in  the  fray 
Regardless  of  the  cost,  all  willing  with  their  blood  to  pay 
The  fearful  price?     No,  not  yet!    'Tis  not  the  voice  of  France 
Who  asks  to  sign  a  pact,  but  calmly  says  "Advance!" 
The  while  entombing  her  gallant  dead  'neath  blood  soaked  sod. 

Who  sounds  the  whispered  word,  peace? 

Britain?    or  America?    whose  supreme  thought  is  Liberty  or 

Death. 
They,  who  stand  within  the  glare  of  God's  great  sun, 
Drenched  unto  their  skin  with  red  sprayed  blood  of  Hun, 
Have  they  cried  peace?    No,  not  yet!    Thank  God,  they  never 

wiU 
Until  the  vision  of  the  Christ  on  Calvary's  hill 
Shall  speak  the  words,  "Cease  firing!"  in  hushed  and  awesome 

breath. 

The  snarling  Hun  has  thrice  screamed  out  word — peace! 

And  thrice  again  before  this  awful  tragedy  is  done 

Will  beg  for  peace — and  beg — and  beg  again — 

While  writhes  his  loathsome  body  in  the  agony  of  pain. 

Peace?    Yes! — but  only  in  the  cannons'  roar  and  bayonets' 

flash. 
Peace?    Yes! — when  Prussia  swirls  in  vortex  of  final  crash; 
But  not  until!    No,  not  until!  and  thus,  God's  will  be  done. 


[43] 


Peace 


AT  THE  WORLD^S  CLOSED  DOOR 

The  shadowy  shape  of  the  Son  of  God  stands  at  the  world's 

closed  door. 
There's  a  halo  of  light  o'er  his  garments  white 
And  he  sorrowfully  looks  on  the  gruesome  sight 
Of  a  blood  stained  earth  cringing  in  fright ; 
Of  a  pall  of  hatred — black  as  night. 
He  softly  taps  with  his  finger  tips, 
Whispering  a  prayer  with  white,  drawn  lips. 
He  silently  stands  at  the  world's  closed  door: 

"Open!    In  the  name  of  God,  I  implore!" 

There's  a  blood  drenched  beast  with  his  hobnailed  boot  thrust 

against  the  world's  closed  door; 
He  hisses  at  God  a  challenging  word 
And  waves  o'er  his  head  a  blood-stained  sword; 
The  Prince  of  Darkness  in  armor  red 
Crouches  and  grins  o'er  the  furrows  of  dead; 
His  skeleton  hands  clutch  a  soft  white  throat 
And  his  serpent  eyes  in  ecstasy  gloat. 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  softly  prays, 

"Open!    In  the  name  of  God,  I  implore!" 


[44] 


Peace 


There's  a  turgid  river,  a  river  of  death,  shut  in  by  the  worid's 

closed  door. 
The  worid  is  hushed  as  it  holds  its  breath; 
It  looks  aghast  on  the  struggle  of  death; 
Many  are  the  mortals  who  will  be  bereft; 
'Mong  the  millions  of  fighters  there  will  be  few  left; 
But  the  tide  is  turned  at  the  River  of  Death, 
And  the  hushed,  hushed  world  releases  its  breath, 
For  the  followers  of  Christ  have  heard  his  prayer: 

"Open!    In  the  name  of  God,  I  implore!" 

The  angels  of  God  at  the  River  Marne  hurl  themselves  at  the 

world's  closed  door. 
Guided  by  God,  to  our  aid  they  have  flown. 
The  Christ  man  kneels  by  the  Great  White  Throne. 
The  blood  drenched  Beast  is  at  last  at  bay; 
His  boast  is  a  He!  his  boast  "0/  the  dayJ^ 
There's  a  rainbow  curved  from  west  to  east — 
Never  again  will  the  savage  blond  beast 
Shut  in  God's  face  the  door  of  the  world. 

No  never!    Nevermore! 


[46] 


Peace 

RENDEZVOUS  WITH  PEACE 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Peace, 

And  in  the  brilliant  light  of  God's  White  Throne 

The  world  shall  kneel  and  beg  surcease, 

And  gaze  upon  My  Cross  and  for  its  sins  atone; 

And  with  the  blood  I  gave  long  years  ago 

Atop  the  peak  of  Calvary's  hideous  mount, 

That  other  blood  of  tortured  souls  shall  flow 

Purified  and  cleansed  from  God's  eternal  fount. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Peace, 

And  in  the  secret  sorrow  of  an  age-sick  soul 

I  shall  demand  that  human  slaughter  cease 

And  that  the  world  again  be  safe  in  God's  control; 

For  man  no  longer  knows  the  mysteries  of  life, 

Nor  holds  the  destinies  of  earth  in  hallowed  palm, 

No  longer  shall  he  rule  the  world  by  strife, 

No  longer  shall  he  tocsin  war's  alarm. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Peace, 

Nor  shall  it  be  where  sullen  guns  do  frown. 

Nor  shall  it  be  'til  man-made  empires  cease 

And  kings  discard  the  useless  robe  and  crown. 

I  offer  you  the  Earthly  Brotherhood  of  Man, 

That  from  the  horror  of  your  sins  you'll  find  release. 

Ever  since  your  lust  for  human  blood  began 

I  have  prayed  to  have  a  rendezvous  with  Peace. 


[46] 


Photomount 

Pamphlet 

Binder 

Caylord  Bros.,  Inc. 

Makers 

Stockton,  Calif. 

PAT.  IAN.  21,  1908 


822644 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


